


I Cannot Hide What I Feel

by Keira_63



Series: The Queen & Her Lord M [20]
Category: ITV Victoria, ITV Victoria (2016), Victoria (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternating Points of View, Episode 3 AU, Episode 3: Brocket Hall, Episode Fix-It: s01e03 Brocket Hall, F/M, Friendship/Love, Happy Ending, Lord M POV, Love, Marriage Proposal, Not Canon Compliant, Older Man/Younger Woman, Requited Love, Shooting, Vicbourne, Victoria POV, injury (but not death), not historically accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 15:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11923617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keira_63/pseuds/Keira_63
Summary: When the Chartist violence nearly ends in tragedy during the opening of the memorial to the Queen’s father, both Victoria and Melbourne realise the futility of attempting to suppress their feelings.





	I Cannot Hide What I Feel

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the historical characters in Victoria nor do I own the TV series which was written by Daisy Goodwin. Any lines from the show are also not mine and are just borrowed from Daisy Goodwin and ITV Victoria. Any recognisable lines belong to Daisy Goodwin and the TV series.
> 
> Records state that Lord M was often moved to tears by Victoria so it seems totally in character for him to cry over her injury here.

_“Why are there so many soldiers, Lord M?”_

_“I'm afraid there may be some disturbance from the Chartists, Ma'am. Since Newport, the movement has grown in strength.”_

_“Do Chartists wear bonnets? Because there are a great many of them out there today.”_

_“Some Chartists do believe that women should have the vote, Ma'am.”_

_“Now you are teasing me.”_

 

* * *

 

William feels uneasy.

The Queen seems at ease, nervous only about her speech and a little exasperated by the posturing of her cousin George and Grand Duke Alexander. Still, though, he cannot help but worry.

There is something in the air, a current of discord amongst the crowd that is not particularly noticeable but there all the same.

He tries to remember what he told the Queen, that the English are not a revolutionary people, that nothing as of yet suggests these disturbances will be any more than minor riots.

However, reason cannot make him forget, not when it involves the Queen he adores far more than is appropriate.

 

Love … he should not even be thinking the word in relation to his Queen, but she brings out so much in him that he has long thought buried that he finds he cannot help it.

He watches her now, as she takes a few deep breaths to calm and prepare herself for her speech, and he is sure that anyone can see his feelings on his face (he hides them from her when he can, but to keep them hidden always is beyond him).

The Duchess is engrossed in conversation with Conroy, but King Leopold (thorn in his side, suspicious of every moment William spends with the Queen) is looking at him, eyes narrowed.

 

The Queen steps up to begin.

William wants to roll his eyes at George of Cambridge and the Grand Duke, who are like children in their quest to stand closest to the Queen.

She speaks, clearly and slowly and without betraying any nervousness. Her gaze finds his and he nods nearly imperceptibly (as he once did during her first meeting with the Privy Council) to reassure her.

He wants to watch her speak (if they are in a room together then his eyes are invariably drawn to her) but he keeps one eye on the crowd. There is something he doesn’t like, something that does not feel right.

 

It is when the Queen finishes speaking, dismissing both her cousin and the Grand Duke’s help to unveil the memorial herself, that he sees it.

Movement in the crowd, the raising of an arm, the glint of a gun.

The guards are too far, his voice lost to him.

He moves quickly, far faster than he has thought himself capable of for a number of years.

He reaches the Queen as the noise of the shot startles the crowd into screams. He pushes her (undignified but necessary) and without even catching his breath he gathers her crumpled form and half-leads, half-carries her to the nearest carriage, all the while bellowing (probably half-crazed and incomprehensibly) for the soldiers to find the shooter.

 

It is only when he lays her across the carriage seat that William realises how pale she is and spots the way her dress is stained red with blood on one side.

He shouts for assistance, the Queen faints in his arms, and he feels the tell-tale dampness on his cheeks that indicates tears.

To cry now is not at all dignified or correct or helpful.

But he does it anyway.

 

* * *

 

Victoria does not like speeches.

She always feels she cannot speak well enough, always fears the contemptuous glares of those like her uncle Cumberland who seek to throw her off kilter.

But when Lord M is there, everything is well. All she has to do is look at him – kind eyes, reassuring expression, and unfeigned belief in her abilities – and she knows that she can do whatever task is before her.

  
Cousin George and the Grand Duke bicker behind her but she does not hear it, only focuses on the minute details of Lord M’s face – the handsome features, the sparkle in his eyes, the twitching corner of his mouth with a smile she is sure is just for her.

Dear Lord M, he is so good at putting her at ease.

 

She speaks well enough, she thinks, but when she looks over at Lord M towards the end of her speech there is something in his air that she does not like, a tense worry that makes her feel ill at ease.

His eyes watch the crowd and so she looks too, but she does not think she sees what he does, for she can detect nothing untoward.

She finishes speaking, goes to reveal the memorial to her father and then everything happens so quickly.

There is a rumble of voices and suddenly Lord M is by her side, pushing her firmly (but still with care) away from her current position. She has had no time to question his actions when she feels a piercing pain searing across her left arm.

 

Before she can ask what has happened, or query the source of the pain, Lord M gathers her up in his arms and begins to move her towards the carriages.

She relaxes a little then. Lord M represents refuge and security, and the warmth of his arms around her calm any fears.

There is shouting, much of it coming from Lord M, but she does not really hear anything that is being said. It feels as if she has gone temporarily deaf, the only sounds registering with her being her heartbeat and Lord M’s, which seem to her to be in perfectly in synch.

The pain is more severe now. There is a dampness against the skin of her left arm and an ever growing dark stain on the fabric of her dress. She wants to cry out but she is so tired, so very tired.

Lord M reaches the carriage and lays her down inside. She looks up to thank him but her head is so heavy and her gaze so blurry.

The last thing she sees before she falls into unconsciousness is a pair of worried eyes set in the face of a person so important to her, and her last conscious thought is his name.

_Lord M_

 

* * *

 

William remembers very little of the next few hours.

He knows that the soldiers apprehended the shooter, but he has no idea what happened to the man afterwards. He imagines that the crowds are dispersed but he cannot be sure.

He returns in the same carriage as the Queen, unable to leave her despite the scandal it may cause. Emma travels with them too but he pays no attention to his friend and the way she tries to stem the bleeding wound on the Queen’s arm, he only passes her whatever she asks him for and watches the Queen’s face and the gentle sound of her breathing to remind himself that he has not failed, that she still lives.

 

He has never thought that anything could come close to the pain he felt when his son died, but this … this brings him close to breaking point.

She is alive, though, and while she is weak he thinks (even with a mind addled by shock and sorrow) that she is not in serious danger.

He cannot help it and finds himself reaching his hand out to grasp the one of hers closest to him. She is no longer wearing gloves (he does not know or care how she came to lose them) and it calms him to feel the warmth of her skin and the steady beating of her pulse (for she is so strong, his fierce Queen). Emma tactfully looks away and says nothing about this further breach of propriety – she, of all the Queen’s ladies, knows best the closeness he shares with the Queen and the feelings he tries to supress.

 

He cannot say how long it takes them to return to the palace, but he knows he spends the entire time with his eyes trained on her.

He does not want to look away, feels that if he does she might disappear.

When they reach the palace there is noise and chaos and a separation he does not want to allow. His usual composure and control is entirely broken by this incident and it takes all of his mental strength to stop himself from fighting to stay with the Queen as she is borne away to be attended to by her doctors.

Instead he slumps against the side of the carriage with his head hanging, lifting his eyes for only a moment to give Emma a grateful look when she squeezes his shoulder in sympathy.

 

He stays outside for a few more minutes, hoping that the cool air will shock him out of the stupor he has been in ever since the shot was fired, and that the light rain that has begun drizzling down his face will mask the tears he once more cannot stop from flowing.

He is a mess in mind and body both, but what does that matter to him when the one person that can make him truly smile has experienced such a brush with death?

He is in no fit state to be much use to anyone until the Queen awakens and he can see for himself that there truly is no lasting harm, but he knows he will not leave.

He will wait no matter how long it takes, no matter how many irritated looks the Duchess of Kent and King Leopold might give him.

Because the Queen … his dearest girl … deserves nothing less.

 

* * *

 

When she wakes, Victoria looks automatically for Lord M, who represents safety and support. When she is unable to see him in the darkened room, her eyes find the figures of Harriet and Emma standing together.

“Where is he?” she asks.

They know who she is speaking of without her even mentioning his name, just the way she asks for him lets them know who it is she wants.

“Lord Melbourne is asleep in a chair outside the room,” Harriet tells her.

“He wished to stay until you woke, Ma’am,” Emma explains, “and though the Duchess and King Leopold were quite against it, William insisted. He would not even go down to meet with the Duke of Wellington and Sir Robert Peel when they arrived – they had to come up to discuss what happened.”

“He is not hurt?”

Her frantic mind conjures images of a bloodied, pale Lord M and her eyes widen in fear. She cannot lose him, not her Lord M.

“He is quite well, Ma’am,” Emma reassures her quickly, “only exhausted – he was very distressed by your injury, though it was his actions that prevented a worse outcome.”

“He pushed me out of the way,” Victoria says slowly, as the memories of those moments flood back to her.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Harriet nods, “they say the bullet would have hit your heart rather than your arm if he had not acted. Even the Tories admit that he is a hero.”

“Of course he is,” Victoria says with no trace of uncertainty, for Lord M has been her hero almost since they first met, helping her escape Conroy’s clutches and supporting her in a way no one else has.

 

“Shall I wake William and bring him in to see you, Ma’am?” asks Emma.

Victoria smiles brightly as she nods, ignoring the huff of disapproval from Lehzen, who has been hovering at her side and frowning at the mentions of Lord M.

As Emma disappears out of the door, Victoria looks to Harriet for some assistance. She knows there is not much she can do about her appearance from her bed but she wants to try and look a little less like an invalid.

Harriet anticipates her wishes without anything being spoken out loud, and spends a few minutes fussing with her hair and flattening the bedcovers. Victoria is grateful for the assistance and thankful for two such supportive ladies as Harriet and Emma are.

 

When her beloved Prime Minister follows Emma into the room a minute later, she feels that nothing in the world can be more comforting to her now than his presence.

“Lord M,” Victoria breathes out his name like a prayer and extends her hand.

When his warm hand grasps her own tiny one and he kneels to press his lips to her bare skin (for there are no gloves in a sick bed) she thinks all is well, feels the tension melt away.

She wishes she could send everyone else away and have just Lord M, for only with him is she able to be truly herself. But she knows it will not be allowed. It is a breach of protocol for him to be in her bedroom while she is so indisposed, overridden only because she has insisted and as he did save her life, but to be so without chaperones is something that would cause a true scandal.

(She is willing to risk it, but she knows Lord M would not wish her to).

 

Emma and Harriet retreat to the corner of the room and begin to talk among themselves, clearly aware that Victoria would like some semblance of privacy to speak with the man who has just saved her life.

Lehzen stays where she is. There is an odd expression on her face – Victoria thinks Lehzen is grateful to Lord M for saving her life but it wars with the disapproval she still feels about the closeness between Victoria and her Prime Minister.

“Dearest Lehzen,” Victoria says, “please will you go and inform mama that I am awake … but do not hurry, do stop for a rest before you find her as I know you have been working so hard.”

Out of the corner of her eyes she can see Lord M’s mouth has quirked into a little smile at her attempts to remove Lehzen’s well-meaning but overbearing presence for a while, though she is sorry to note that his eyes still seem tired.

“Of course, Majesty,” Lezhen says, clearly realising that arguing is futile – Victoria may be aching and injured but she will not be argued with when it comes to Lord M.

 

“Dear Lord M, do sit down,” she indicates to the chair next to her bed.

“I trust you are well, Ma’am,” he says, his words casual but the stiff way he holds himself showing her that he is not nearly as relaxed as he would probably like her to believe.

She remembers Emma’s words that Lord M has been distressed and finds that she can well believe it, for while he has fixed his usual amiable, warm smile on his face she can see the traces of strain underneath the façade.

“The doctors say I will make a full recovery. Thank you,” she tells him quietly, “you saved me, Lord M.”

“I should not have needed to,” he says with no small hint of self-hatred in his tone, “I should have arranged further security in light of the recent Chartist activity.”

“No,” she shakes her head, tears springing from her eyes at the thought that he blames himself, he who has been so much to her, whose actions saved her life.

“No,” she repeats, “it is not your fault, Lord M, you must not think that.”

“Is that an order, Ma’am?” he asks, and the slight teasing note in his voice brings her so much relief that she nearly sighs out loud.

“Yes,” she gives him her brightest grin, “by order of your Queen you must agree that you are the hero of the day – after all, Lord M, even those wretched Tories agree with me.”

“Well that is a feat in itself, Ma’am, for you and the Tories to be in agreement. I will mark this auspicious day in my calendar.”

She laughs, a carefree, silvery thing reserved just for him and her darling little Dash.

His eyes brighten at her amusement, almost completely banishing the shadow in his expression.

Oh why can it not always be like this, she wonders? The two of them and the ease of conversation between them.

 

The moment is broken by the sound of her mama’s chatter and Victoria sees Lord M’s expression change as he hears the sounds too. She knows he will leave now, will not wish to distress her with the scene her mama will make if she finds him here in her rooms.

“I do wish you would stay, Lord M,” she sighs as he stands to leave.

“I am afraid I must go to the House, Ma’am, but I will return in the morning and I hope I will bring news for you.”

She nods, he bows and then he is gone.

 

Victoria has barely two minutes to herself before mama arrives in a great state with a glowering Lehzen following in her wake.

She does not pay full attention to mama, whose anxious rantings blaming everyone (including Chartists, her uncle Cumberland, and even dear Lord M) for the shooting require her to only nod once or twice and try to soothe her mama with assurances that she is nowhere near death’s door and that Lord M’s brave actions were instrumental in her wellbeing.

 

Instead, Victoria thinks about Lord M.

Now that she has seen him for the first time since the shooting, somehow she finds that she just  _knows_.

She knows what it is that they have been building towards since the moment he knelt to kiss her hand at Kensington, since the first time his warm expression made her stomach swoop in a way she had never before experienced.

Love.

She knows attraction. Despite mama and Sir John’s attempts to keep her isolated she did meet young men before she became Queen, and she did find a number good looking and amiable. But never like this, never has her heart been as deeply and fully penetrated as it has now been by witty, clever, handsome, genial Lord M, who can cheer her with a word or look and send her soaring with his open, frank admiration and belief in her.

She hasn’t ever truly understood the depth of her feelings before now, but she realises the signs have been there all along … how he is so often the only one who can calm her, how much she wanted to dance with him that night at her coronation ball, and how desperately upset she was at the thought of losing him when he told her he must resign.

She is blind no longer, though, and determined to do something about her feelings. She has come so close to losing her life, and when she thinks of all the wasted time she knows she must seize the moment.

But she needs the perfect time, the perfect place away from prying eyes, and a little time to find the right words.

She needs Brocket Hall.

* * *

 

The House is exhausting.

William does not wish to be there, would much rather be with the Queen and able to watch her recovery with his own eyes, but he knows he has a duty to his country to fulfil despite his personal desires.

The shooter has been apprehended thanks to Peel’s men and he makes a mental note to emphasise this point when he next sees the Queen – Peel will surely follow him as Prime Minister and anything that can be said to soften the Queen’s opinion of the extremely able but awkward man is worth remembering.

The man, it seems, is a Chartist radical. Not a surprise to the government, though rather a relief, for he will be easier to deal with than the furore that might have ensued if the would-be assassin had turned out to be connected to the Duke of Cumberland (a rumour he will be very happy to put to rest).

The perpetrator’s fate will not be decided for weeks, if not months. Though his guilt is almost definite, proper procedure must be followed as the crime was so severe and public. And who knows, perhaps a plea for insanity will follow, though from what Peel tells him the man appears to have been in his right mind. As long as the sentencing can ensure the man never comes near the Queen again, and serves as a deterrent to others who might contemplate such a hideous action, then William will be satisfied.

 

He passes the palace on his way home from the House, tired and ready for a stiff drink (or two or three) before bed, and finds his eyes drawn to the windows of what he knows to be the Queen’s rooms.

“Goodnight Victoria,” he whispers, almost to himself, “goodnight darling girl.”

 

* * *

 

“To Brocket Hall!” mama cries out in shock the morning after the shooting, “oh Drina, do not be so foolish – you cannot go and stay alone with your Prime Minister, it is out of the question.”

“I will not be alone, mama,” Victoria tells her with an icy look, completely ignoring the glowering figure of Sir John Conroy ever present beside the Duchess, “Emma and Harriet will accompany me, and there will be a multitude of servants besides that. My doctors tell me I must go about quietly and peacefully for a few weeks and though I am sure I will be quite well in a week I wish to spend that time resting at Brocket Hall, for I have heard much about the house and have a great desire to see it.”

“Sir John,” mama looks helplessly towards the hulking shadow who helped ruin Victoria’s childhood.

“That will be all, mama,” she says in her most imperious tone, keen for mama and Sir John to leave before the latter begins again in his quest to lecture and control her.

The Duchess sweeps out in what can only be described as a huff (although she would insist her manner was far too dignified to be referred to in such a way) and Sir John follows, but not before giving Victoria a dark look that makes her wish she could banish him without the problems that would arise.

She fights the urge to roll her eyes after them, for it is unbecoming of the Queen of England though it would make her feel better.

 

“I will attend you at Brocket Hall, Majesty?” asks Lehzen.

Victoria pauses a moment, knowing that her answer will hurt her faithful companion but determined in her course.

“Not this time, dear Lehzen. I will need you here to keep watch over everything in my absence.”

Lehzen frowns, “but Majesty, to go to Lord Melbourne’s home in such a way, when he has  _such_ a reputation.”

“I will be quite well,” Victoria snaps, nerves frayed by Lehzen’s protective but irritating words and the way the Baroness has begun to sound a little too much like mama, “I trust Lord M completely, and as I told mama, I shall have Emma and Harriet with me.”

She does not say out loud what she knows deep down (and what she is counting on), which is that her two favourite ladies’ loyalty to her (and Emma’s long friendship with Lord M) will ensure that they do not hover as Lehzen surely would.

Victoria adores Lehzen, but she does forget so often that Victoria is a Queen now, not a child to be protected from the world.

“Of course, Majesty,” Lehzen says, and while Victoria feels guilty for the pain she has caused to bloom in Lehzen’s eyes she knows that she must go to Brocket Hall.

She has to follow her heart.

 

* * *

 

She is coming to Brocket Hall.

William can scarcely believe it and though there is so much to be done in just a few days to prepare for the royal visit he spends a full day unable to stop smiling (Peel, Wellington and a number of his own party leave meetings with him wearing  _very_ disconcerted looks on their faces).

A full week she will be staying with him and quite possibly more if her doctors have anything to say about it. Of course they will still continue with their work, for even injured the Queen is very conscious of her duties and responsibilities, but he will be able to show her the grounds of Brocket Hall, the rooks, and the favourite places of his childhood. His sister Emily has promised to come for a visit at some point and the Queen is very happy with the plan, having expressed an eager wish to know Emily better that delights William.

 

The shooting has shaken him, but this visit has renewed his spirits immensely.

He knows the dangers of it, that such continual proximity (they have always been close, but never for so long and with so little other company) will just make the heartbreak he is sure will be inevitable all the more painful.

The Queen must marry. He knows and accepts that, and is aware that this visit may make it harder for him to bear.

But he is an ageing man and she is so much to him, a bright and shining light in his life.

Is it so wrong for him to want to bask in her presence while he still can?

 

* * *

 

Brocket Hall is beautiful, even more so for the presence of Lord M and the endless stories he has to tell about it.

It is the perfect place to relax and recuperate from her ordeal and she finds herself falling a little in love with the house and grounds, not only for their connection to Lord M but for the charming tranquillity they offer to her.

 

And soon enough, Victoria finds her moment.

After breakfast on the third day of their stay at Brocket Hall, she asks the butler about the whereabouts of her Prime Minister and is informed that he is out in the grounds indulging in a favourite occupation of his, that of ‘contemplating the rooks’.

She is not entirely sure what that means and, unwilling to be ignorant, she heads to Lord M’s magnificent library, where she discovers that rooks are in fact a type of bird.

She stores the knowledge away, smiles at the discovery of a little fact about her beloved Prime Minister, and then goes off to find him.

 

She discovers him, as the butler has told her, watching the rooks,

He is casually dressed, the most rumpled that she has seen him since her impromptu visit to Dover House. She notes especially the way the colour of his coat suits him, and how his shirt is a little unbuttoned and allows her to catch more of a glimpse of the bare skin of his neck than usual (she is a Queen, yes, but a woman too).

 

“I am sorry to disturb you, Lord M,” she says when he notices her presence.

“Not at all,” he smiles at her with genuine feeling and she knows he is not unhappy that she is there.

She has been so resolute until now, so sure of what she wants to say. Yet now, in his presence, she is nervous and unsure – it is a strange feeling, for he is usually the one that helps her banish her worries and feel strong.

But she finds the strength to go on, because this is Lord M and whether or not he returns her feelings (and oh she hopes so badly that he will) she knows he will never be cruel or harsh with her.

 

“I recently realised something.”

 “Yes, Ma'am?”

A heartbeat’s silence between them as Victoria tries to order her thoughts, to speak with clarity of the feelings that have so long been a jumble of confusion in her mind.

“I think perhaps now ... I am speaking as a woman and not as a queen. At the beginning ... I thought that you were the father I never had. But now I feel, I know ... that you are the only companion I could ever desire.”

 

She looks at him, this man who has taught her, been her friend, picked her up when she was down and helped her stand on her own two feet against the many people who wish to destroy her and push her down.

The man she loves.

 

“Lord M,” her voice trembles as it never has before with the magnitude of what she is about to ask, “William … I cannot hide what I feel, not after what has happened … will you … will you marry me?”

 

* * *

 

William is undone by her.

This tiny powerhouse of a young woman with a spine of steel and a capacity for emotion and love he has never before witnessed.

Her words echo in his mind … a confession of love, a proposal.

He has never doubted her regard for him, but he has also not expected such a level of feeling.

A love requited, shared, mirrored.

A love that before her he never expected to feel again.

 

William takes her hands in his own and though her gloves separate them he can still feel the warmth of her skin.

“Did you know that ... that rooks mate for life?”

She looks up at him, eyes shining, and he pauses as he considers how to continue.

 

Two roads diverge in his mind. One is what he  _should_ say, which is an implication that his wife was his ‘mate for life’ and that he cannot accept Victoria’s love – in other words, a lie. The other is what he  _wants_  to say, which is that he loved his wife but she was not his mate for life, that he knows Victoria is and that he loves her in return.

Duty tries to compel him to pick the first path, for he is sure that he is not worthy of Victoria and that a connection between them will only bring trouble that she does not need right now.

But his heart, oh his heart wants the second path so badly. He is a cynic, that is true, yet he is also a romantic (for he has learnt that these two such things can exist together in one person) and he feels far more deeply than most people suspect.

He loves her, his darling girl, and surely that counts for something.

Surely it counts for rather a lot.

 

And when he thinks of what happened less than a week ago, of how close she came to death … well it is something he has been dwelling on incessantly despite the terrible nature of such thoughts.

If the worst had happened, how much he would have had to regret.

He does not want regrets now, has wasted too much of his life already with such things.

Is it so selfish to want the love he has been sorely missing from his life, to want to be happy in the years he has left?

Sometimes he wishes he was not so prone to overthinking and careful consideration, for how can he ever make a decision of such magnitude without worrying about what effect it will have on the one person who can make him truly smile?

 

… how can he say anything other than yes when she looks at him with such feeling in her eyes.

For he still holds her hands in his, and she still waits patiently (if nervously) for his answer to the question it probably took all her great courage to ask.

 

“Rooks mate for life,” he repeats his earlier words, said only a few moments ago though it feels like a lifetime to him.

“I loved her, my wife,” he says, continuing quickly when Victoria’s expression turns sorrowful, “and I do not regret my marriage, though I do regret much that happened during it. But …”

Victoria looks steadily at him, face shining with hope.

“… but there was a gulf I could not cross with Caro, a space between us – both of our faults, really – that persisted despite the love that was there. We were not mates for life. I believe, though, that I have now discovered a love that will never die, one that I will never get over.”

“Do you mean …?” Victoria whispers her question, eyes wide.

William nods, “Victoria … it would be my honour to marry you.”

 

* * *

 

The joy they both feel at William’s words is hard for them to put into words.

Even their first kiss (and the second, third and fourth that quickly follow) cannot quite convey their feelings.

 

Their love is not the poison that William and Caro’s sometimes was, nor the weak feeling Victoria had once or twice felt for men who visited Kensington before she was Queen. Their love is not easy either, for even two who adore each other do not always get along.

No, their love is a simple look or touch, a smile only they can see, support that carries them through good times and bad, a fierce belief in each other and their talents, a strong friendship, a burning passion, a partnership.

And, eventually, their love is a matching pair of wedding rings, two princes and a little princess bringing childish laughter to the palace, and two lives well lived.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
